


Effloresce

by ExquisiteRose



Series: The Burgeoning Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Although he's sweet to John, Complete, Gen, Jealousy, John being John, Johnlock friendship, Kidfic, Maybe he's a little OOC, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, mentions of bullying, mentions of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExquisiteRose/pseuds/ExquisiteRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock participates in a game of hide-and-go-seek with his classmates and is betrayed by his own keen deductive skills. John comes, infalliably, to his defense. So begins a beautiful friendship.<br/>A kidfic based around the hide-and-go-seek theme. Johnlock friendship, although it alludes as they get older.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prosperpous Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> W/C:1245
> 
> Warnings: A/U, since Lestrade is not a detective in ths, they're kids, as well as other thingds. This is my first story writing for Sherlock Holmes, and anything even remotely Johnlock-be gentle, please. Thanks.
> 
> Notes: There's only seven chapters. The story's overall wordcount is around 9k to 10k; the chapters are short. This is the first installment in a series. As it's complete, it will be posted rather swiftly. Probably all today..  
> Also, all the chapter names have a theme of maturity, or, meaning to say, all contain a synonym of the word 'growth'.  
> Lastly, I read 'kindergarten' is a widely used term and is used in England to describe preschools and playgroups, but rarely used. If anyone could provide me with the more modern/suitable term, it'd be much obliged.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the series, the show, or the movies, etc. The orignal books and stories belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, some 'knock offs' to John Hall, and the movie and TV show rights to their appropriate owners.

"You're cheating!" The little girl's screech attracted the attention of the whole of the kindergarten class.

A little boy, with a curly mop of hair piled on his head and rather long legs for being only six, raised an aristocratic eyebrow delicately, in slight offense, at the girl who had just accused him. He was standing by a large pile of toys, all haphazardly stowed in front of the toy box, which sat by a tall book case full of pop ups and the like, where the girl inside the toy box was glaring at him. "No, I'm not," he replied calmly.

The little girl's face scrunched up. "You are!" she said loudly. "You peeked! N'one knew where I was hiding! You peeked, you peeked!"

The boy sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit likely picked up from a parent or elder sibling. "I'm not cheating," he repeated slowly. "You're just predictable." The little girl stared at him dumbly. The boy gave her a withering look. "It means that you're obvious. I could tell where you were most likely to hide before I turned around. It was child's play, really," he said with a sniff.

The little girl, confused by his logic, turned to the professor and tugged on his pants to get his attention. Botttom lip out and pouting, she regaled to him the tragic tale of her utopian hide-and-go seek game being trampled on by one Sherlock Holmes. ".. So he was cheating, 'fessor, he was cheating!"

Professor Lestrade listened to the girl, nodding along sympathetically at the appropriate times, then turned reluctantly to Sherlock. "Sherlock," he drawled.

Sherlock Holmes looked up at the professor, unimpressed. "Lestrade," he said.

"Professor Lestrade," Lestrade chided. Sherlock raised another brow. "Did you cheat?"

At this point, Sherlock had become indignant. "Of course not," he said huffily.

"How did you know exactly where she was? By all, means, this is a very good hiding spot. She wasn't even near it by the time you turned, and yet you knew and went straight for her when there were other children, at least five others, playing as well." Lestrade looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherock glared at him.

"As a professor of education, no matter how low your station is considering you're teaching kindergarteners," Sherlock said distastefully, seeming to forget he was a kindergartner himself, "I thought you would be able to see, without a doubt and with no influence from hearsay, how obvious it was that I didn't cheat and how obviously horrid she is at hiding."

"I fail to see how she is 'horrid' at hiding, as this toy box is in a corner, partially hidden by a bookcase. It's a rather clever place to hide,actually."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath in response. Lestrade could only catch part of it, ".. imbecile.. he would.. Mycroft.. right.." It was enough for him to reach some conclusion that disproved the law of Syllogism.

"Mr. Holmes, we cannot permit liars in this classroom. I'll have to call your mother."

Sherlock's face dropped, and he seemed aghast, equal parts horror, disbelief, and betrayal expressed clearly on his cherub face. "You'd call my dear mummy for some petty lie this girl spewed? You have no proof that I cheated-which I didn't! You would know this if you weren't so clearly unfit for your position!" Sherlock's hand, which had been gesticulating wildly with his rising ire, dropped to his side in a big finish, emphasizing his point.

"Unfit?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock met Lestrade's gaze, eye's defiant and chin lifted, and said, "Yes." The lack of 'sir' didn't go unnoticed.

Lestrade's mouth tightened. "Maybe we should have mummy visit the school.."

"Stop!" A small voice called. A boy with sandy blond hair and expressive eyes stepped out from behind a closet door a few feet away. "He didn't do anything," the boy said.

"John, please, this is none of your concern, really. As a new student, I'd advise you to not make assumptions about Mr. Holmes' honesty or actions. Now," Lestrade began patronizingly.

"You're lying!" John Watson interrupted, waggling a tiny finger at the little girl. She gulped. "'fessor 'Strade, Molly's lying."

"How would you know this, John? Sherlock is clearly the liar," the Lestrade said.

"You are clearly blind," John replied boldly. "He didn't turn around at all. I watched from behind the door there where I was hiding; he kept his eyes closed and faced the wall the whole time. The whole time," John repeated earnestly. He glanced at Sherlock shyly. The corner of Sherlock's lip upturned very slightly, gratefully.

"You saw this, you say?" Lestrade asked. "You're sure? Not lying, are you? Lying to a teacher is almost the same as perjury."

John frowned in confusion. Perjury?

Sherlock, who had walked toward John unnoticed, clasped John's hand in his reassuringly and said to him, "Perjury is when you lie on the witness stand and you're under oath." John stared at him blankly. "In a court, you know, and you lie to a judge," he added. John nodded unsurely, then blushed slightly. He stared at their interlocked hands. Sherlock smiled at him triumphantly and give John's hand a squeeze. "He's not lying, Lestrade. I can tell," Sherlock said confidently.

"And I'd believe you because you have such a great record for honesty," Lestrade deadpanned.

"That was one time, and it was under completely different circumstances," Sherlock replied complained, getting upset again. John squeezed his hand. Sherlock calmed, then said, "I'm not lying now."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Alright, let's say you're not lying.. How'd you know where Miss Molly was hiding?"

Sherlock scoffed at him. "It's obvious, isn't it?" Lestrade was silent. Sherlock sighed, disappointed, and shook his head. "Before we began the game, she had been eying the toy box for awhile. I could hear her walk to the toy box after I turned around, what with her shoes having a small heel and the walls in this room making a crisp echo, and the toys have clearly been moved from where they had been before we started the game."

"Any child in here could have done so," Lestrade repudiated.

"Which child was over there? Was there anyone over there?" Sherlock asked the room at large. No one said anything. Sherlock smirked at Lestrade smugly. "I could also hear her giggling and breathing when I got nearer, her breathing particularly hitching slightly from a cold. From all this, I deduced that that's where she had hidden, and my conclusion had been right.. Simple. Child's play. Obvious."

Lestrade sputtered. Sherlock, bored with Lestrade, turned to John. John smiled at him. "I'm John Watson," he said politely.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said amusedly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes." They shook their interlocked hands, grinning at each other.

"I don't like the professor," John stage-whispered to Sherlock.

"It's okay, John," Sherlock whispered back confidentially. "No one does." Sherlock spared a glance to Lestrade's shocked face before ignoring him entirely to talk with John. "Do you like science?" he asked him eagerly.

"Science? What's science?" John looked at Sherlock innocently.

Sherlock gave John a long, analyzing look, then patted his back kindly. "What it must be like in your simple little head, John. It must be so boring," he said thoughtfully before continuing. "Science is everything; you, me, even Lestrade, although that's debatable.."

John giggled as they walked away, and Sherlock smiled at his new friend, tightening his hand around John's. Lestrade, still a little dumbfounded by the new student and Sherlock Holme's blossoming friendship and the whole debacle with the cheating, stared after them dazedly, little Molly still pouting at his side.


	2. Brilliant Flourish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is determined to surprise Sherlock by outwitting him in a game of hide-and-go-seek. They end up surprising each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're still young. This chapter will later connect with chapter one of The Sherlockian Principle, the second installment of the Burgeoning Series.  
> W/C: 1369  
> Disclaimer: I own Sherlock Holmes no more than I did yesterday-which is to say, not at all. Sherlock Holmes and related fandoms belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (mainly), John Hall, BBC, etcetera, etcetera... But not me... :(

Dirt and grass stained the trousers of one John H. Watson. Running swiftly, or as swift as his chubby legs would speed him along, he smiled and giggled joyously.

Sherlock Holmes had come to his birthday party, and John had manipulated him into playing a game of hide-and-go-seek with him and his friends. Sherlock was, currently, turned in a corner in the kitchen of the Watson home, counting softly, "nineteen, eighteen, seventeen.." while John and several other children, including little Molly, who had somehow wiggled back into their good graces, fled from where he counted to hide.

Their plan, as they all remembered, quite vividly , the last time they had played hide-and-seek with the infamous Sherlock Holmes, was to create a cacophony, noise so intermingled and loud Sherlock would have no idea where they would hide by listening to them go to their spots.

It was a serious matter for the other children, as they wanted to win, but to John Watson, it was a great game. He had told Sherlock, the day before, when they were on an adventure to find his mother's missing earring (which they thought was misplaced, but had really been taken by his sister, Harriet), that he was going to outsmart him at his birthday. He set the rules and told the other kids, not that Sherlock knew, but to aid him in his plan to outsmart him, all of them together, but really just John. John was determined to hide and have the best spot, so Sherlock wouldn't discover him for quite some time, and, as he laughed and yelled like a madman to contribute to the distracting madness of the effort, he already knew the perfect place.

***

The Watson house was small and tidy. Everything was neatly placed, with hints of disorder here and there. The overall sign of rapid cleaning in preparation for guests, Sherlock noted.

The backyard was, in a metaphorical sense, a forest of plants and nature. There were scraggly bushes lining the back fence, which was made of light brown wooden planks, slowly deteriorating. The grass was a light green, with small patches of yellow and random bursts of crab grass. There were dandelions in every which direction, some trampled by the frenetic children who had run about in a maniacal search for a suitable hiding spot. There was a small pool off to the back left of the yard, light blue with a small slide inside, next to an old, beige shed. It was clean, filled with water, just short of overflowing, and a group of trees towered over it, large pine green leaves on each and every branch, providing a small reprieve from the scorching heat of the day.

Sherlock's keen eyes swept every inch of the backyard, following the length of a bush and scanning the dirt on the ground. He saw, just by one glance, Molly's dress catch in the breeze from behind a bush just shy of the pool, Jenny Sue's Mary Janes peek out from behind the door of the shed, William's spiky hair popping up from behind a bucket he hid behind and many other children who chose painfully obvious hiding places.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. They never learn, do they? He walked past William's hiding place slowly, making a show of looking for him or any other children. He heard William's breath catch several time's when he came too close to where he was hiding, and a sigh of relief when he decided to back off. Sherlock smirked slightly, just an small upturning of the lips, and passed on. He didn't want to find Molly first, or William or Jenny Sue; he wanted find John. He took his challenges very seriously after all.

Another scan of the backyard, and he got it. He almost laughed in glee; John was learning fast. He'd have to commend him on the spectacular choice for a hiding spot.

After he told everyone he was found, that is.

But before that, he'd mess with him a bit.

***

John Watson anxiously watched Sherlock as walked slowly across the length of the backyard. He bit his nails nervously as Sherlock came particularly close to his hiding spot, then trailed away. He breathed a small sigh of relief, almost inaudible, when he slowly closed in on another child (better them than him-he had a game to win). To John's disappointment, Sherlock turned away from the child, little Anthony, just seconds before he would have caught him.

John had a moment to think on the peculiarity of that, for Sherlock was not one to look a gift-horse in the face-unless he was unsatisfied, which leads us back to a point-before he realized Sherlock was, once again, moving in his direction. His heart almost leapt out of his chest. He was surprised Sherlock couldn't hear the the thumping of it, the loud thrashing of noise it made as he neared-couldn't he hear it?

From his position on top of the shed, hidden behind a small wooden sign his father had nailed upright on the roof when he was two-which read, the Hideout, if you'll believe the utter irony in that-he could see Sherlock nearing ever closer to a tree, thick and tall, planted adjacent to the shed. John was ducking just enough to be hidden completely by both the sign and the tree. Or so the children had nodded when he hid there.

It was certainly a genius hiding place, and he was sure Sherlock would concur when he found him. Not 'if', because John knew there was no 'if' with Sherlock Holmes by now, on this fifth month of being friends with him-best mates, you could say.

His best mate, as he could say, was climbing the length of the tree. John's face blanched. God, he was found out!

"My dearest Watson," he heard Sherlock's voice begin. "I commend you on your hiding place. What a clever little spot you have found! You found this place when your father and Harriet got into a fight a little more than a year ago, did you not? What a marvelous place!" Sherlock sounded pleased and proud, as though he had found this little hideout himself.

"How did you know?" John asked. How did you know I hid here to hide?

"The branches," Sherlock said, making a vague gesture towards the trees. "They were pushed on, not too hard, but lightly, suggesting a small weight had displaced it. There are various marks along the trunks from small shoes scruffing it and small hands grasping at it for purchase. It showed you had been here quite a few times, a most notable indentation suggesting anger from your part, and from how old it was, I could estimate it was a year ago, maybe more," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"That's brilliant," John breathed in awe.

Sherlock blushed very lightly, his cheeks stained a soft pink color, like a ripe peach. "It was not so hard. Your hiding place was quite good as well," he said quickly, changing the subject. "More clever than I had originally given you credit for, but, then, I chose you for a reason." Sherlock looked at John appraisingly.

John flushed at the roundabout praise and said, "I recall me choosing you."

"Must we argue of such frivolous things? Did we not choose each other, John?" Sherlock asked dramatically, plopping lightly next to John and leaning against him slightly.

"We did," John said, placing an arm around Sherlock to make him more comfortable because if he was going to be a human pillow, then he'd do a damn good job of it.

"So it's settled, then," Sherlock concluded over the voices of the children below, asking if they were coming down to play another round.

"It is," John agreed quietly. Sherlock made a small noise of contentment and settled against John. John decided he may as well get a nap out of this, and closed his eyes, promptly forgetting about everything, including his own party, when Sherlock snuggled in close.


	3. Blooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an inanimate object plays hide-and-go-seek, and Mycroft is the mastermind behind it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W/C: 1575  
> Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock Holmes. No great leap of ownership happened between yesterday and today, so I'm still bereft of Sherlock Holmes rights. But you know who isn't bereft of Sherlock Holmes rights? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Hall, BBC, and various other people who shall remain nameless :p

The thrill of adventure coursed through John Watson's veins, fast and pulsing. Sherlock Holmes was leading him through the thicket of his backyard-meaning to say, Sherlock's backyard, which was far larger and vast than John's own forest. The biology to be found in the yard itself, the sheer expanse of it, or what Sherlock had taken the time to explain to John of it, amazed John to no end. And to think, just a year and a half ago, he hadn't the faintest idea what science was.

John Watson, now a tender seven years of age, shook his head in wonder at his past five-year old self. He owed Sherlock, it seemed, a great many things.

"Come along, John," Sherlock said, parting the tall grass and pushing aside bushes easily so John could get through. Sherlock, now eight, had taken John under his metaphorical wing. He looked at John like he would someone who was his pupil, his apprentice, and made sure to educate him as best he could. This sometimes stretched into a brotherly, or possibly jealous, protectiveness, Sherlock doing his best, so that John would want for nothing. Sherlock wanted to embody the perfect best friend.

John cannot deny that Sherlock's attentions have made him slightly spoiled and selfish where Sherlock was concerned. He demanded his attention, as a spoilt child is wont to do for someone they're particularly fond of, and usually got it. Thus, Sherlock indeed succeeded in being the perfect best friend. John couldn't imagine anything more he could want in a best friend.

In this way was he at Sherlock's house for the weekend, instead of playing at Molly's and meeting her new friend, Mary, as he had promised. He didn't feel quite so bad as he had when he had first agreed to go to Sherlock's instead of Molly's; he didn't very much want to go to Molly's in the first place.

Molly had begun to hang around Sherlock, much like a parasite, sucking away John's time with him. And, without question, wherever John went, Sherlock was sure to follow, and vice versa. It was almost guaranteed that Molly would cling to Sherlock right when they arrived and would refuse to let him go, even with Sherlock protestations, for the rest of the time there.

At this point in their friendship, John was reluctant to part with his friend unless a life was at stake. Sherlock, understanding without needing to be told, suggested John spend the remainder of the weekend with him at his house, and they'd tell Molly and Mary he was sick, and John, as Sherlock's dearest friend (only friend, real friend), was missing the playdate with Molly to take care of him.

Molly fell for it. It was simpler to execute than John would have imagined, but, then, he supposed he should have imagined it would be. Molly, instead of being pouty or mad that John couldn't attend, was consumed with worry over Sherlock's state of health, and even offered to come over and play nurse. Sherlock had refused her offer, stating John was already a perfect nurse, and it was doubtful he'd need another.

"Now, John, remember, Mycroft said he lost it yesterday. If we're to find this allusive watch, then we'd do best to go over his day once again, just to be sure we understand and remember all the details, alright?" Sherlock looked at John expectantly while holding the branch of a low tree out of John's way.

"Alright, then," John said with a grin. He remembered everything Mycroft did yesterday. Not only had they asked Mycroft this morning, when they received the case to find the watch, but John also remembered some things Mycroft did yesterday since John had spent the night the day before. "Well, when he woke up, he didn't have the watch on. You said he doesn't sleep with his watch. Mycroft said that he put it on yesterday morning, too, and he did. I remember seeing it at breakfast," John said proudly.

Sherlock smiled encouragingly, "Good observation, John! That's right."

"After breakfast, Mycroft spent some time with your parents in the study, but we already searched the room and spoke with your parents. We agreed it was not in there."

"Right, John, keep going," Sherlock said, grabbing John's hand to pull him along through the grass.

"Right. Mycroft went into his room to study for a couple of hours, from twelve to four. We searched his room. It was not there," John paused, watching Sherlock go around a log, hand still linked with his. "Mycroft said he took a walk around the grounds after. It was when he returned from his walk, around five thirty he said, that he realized it was missing." John hopped over the log Sherlock had gone around with a grin. "That's why we're here now."

"Precisely. Good job, Detective Watson," Sherlock praised with an affectionate smile. John beamed. "Now that we have our facts, what are our deductions from them?"

"That the watch was likely lost here in the backyard," John replied promptly.

Sherlock smiled a small, almost private smile. It was teasing and expectant, and John knew he had lost something along in the threads by this point. Sherlock very rarely gave him this smile unless he missed something important of extreme importance, some nuance that had escaped his notice, that had wriggled from his grasp like so many slimy worms.

John scrunched up his nose in thought. What had he missed?

"The time, Watson, the time," Sherlock said, pointing towards his wrist. Sherlock pulled back the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing, and it was then that John noticed that Sherlock had a watch on. And not just any watch, but the missing watch!

"Sherlock, where did you find it?" John asked, shocked. Hadn't they been trampling about in this wilderness in search of the watch? Why didn't Sherlock tell him?

"I didn't find it. That would require it to have been missing," Sherlock replied. John watched him take the watch off, Sherlock letting go of John's hand to undo the clasp. "Mycroft had hid the watch, and then he approached us with a 'case', so we'd leave the house for a couple of hours."

"Wait.. you didn't find the watch while we were walking?"

"No, that's the point, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, clearly exasperated he hadn't caught on. "Mycroft didn't have a case! The watch was never lost!" Sherlock paced alongside the log and began explaining. "I knew there was something wrong from the second he mentioned the case. He hardly ever takes that watch off, except for when he sleeps, and we knew he had it on yesterday morning because we saw it, just as you said, on his wrist at breakfast. Then, he stayed in the study so long with our parents, I wondered if maybe he had died. Whatever mother and father needed to talk to him about, it hardly needed to take that long. I began to wonder what was holding them up. Now," Sherlock paused and glanced at John. John had sat on the log, and was staring at the watch. When Sherlock paused, John looked up, and, after making sure John was listening, Sherlock continued, "As you know, Mycroft is going to bring his girlfriend, Anthea, over today."

"I thought he said they only were friends," John interrupted, frowning.

"A lie, to make sure mummy wouldn't get upset. They're 'going out', I heard him say, which makes no sense because they're not even going to leave the house. They're just going to stay in Mycroft's room. We're going out, if anything, seeing as we're actually outside! But I wouldn't expect Mycroft to understand American phrases-he can't even tell if they're together, or friends!" Sherlock shook his head, while John shrugged, then nodded in agreement. "Anyway, Mycroft's girlfriend is coming over, and he wanted us to leave so we wouldn't bother them. I can't imagine how we would bother them; his girlfriend would most likely find us endearing, if anything. I'm a prodigy, and you're quite adorable," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, thinking. John blushed.

Sherlock shrugged, then continued explaining, "He thought, since you were going to go to Molly's that I would, too, but that didn't happen, obviously, and he doesn't want us here to steal his attention, I suppose, so he made up this crock of a case to get us out of the house. When he told us the exact time he had come back from his walk, I knew he had his watch on him when he returned from it, and that he had been lying about losing it, so I snuck into his room while you were brushing your teeth and took it. No doubt he's screaming for it right now," Sherlock mused.

The statement, John thought, must have been a prophecy, or, at the very least, a calling, since a moment later, they heard a shout of "Sherlock!"

Sherlock winked at John, grabbing his hand and pulling him along as he ran in the opposite direction. "This," Sherlock said, looking back at John and laughing from adrenaline, "is why we came outside still, and acted liked we were searching for the watch!"

John heard another yell, another cry of, "Sherlock!" and grinned mischievously. "Revenge?" he asked Sherlock.

"Revenge," Sherlock agreed with impish grin.

They laughed as they ran away from Mycroft, and didn't return with the watch until Anthea had already left.


	4. Dissembled Inflorescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which storms are particularly frightening monsters when they're searching for you, and Sherlock is John's knight in shining armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fits with chapter 2 of The Sherlockian Principle. 
> 
> W/C: 1,128
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of alcohol abuse and domestic violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, sadly. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the lucky one, does, so does John Hall, BBC, Moffat, etcetera, etcetera..

"Shh," John whispered to Sherlock as they tip-toed across the living room towards his sister. Harriet was asleep on the couch, arms in all directions and snoring loudly, like she usually did when she came home particularly inebriated.

John, now eight and a half, sometimes envied Harriet. When Father fought with her, she could leave and get drunk, passing out when she came home and preventing further argument. Even at her age, only eighteen, alcohol wasn't hard to get a hold of. Indeed, there were more than plenty people willing to offer it to her. John, however, had no real escape.

When he was still seven, his father and mother would never argue in front of Sherlock. Now, it seemed, they had no qualms about it. John was embarrassed. Sherlock was protective.

At nine years old, Sherlock's courage and protectiveness for John had increased ten-fold. Oftentimes, Sherlock would squeeze his way into John's parent's arguments, a sarcastic and calm presence mocking every unsuitable defense and reason to argue they had. Every word from his mouth an insult to John's parents. Not that John minded-he rather thought it was effective, as his parents always scowled and stopped fighting. His mom would sigh and hug Sherlock and John, her two boys, Sherry and Johnny. Sherlock would grimace. John would smile.

"Hurry, John," Sherlock urged. "My toes are freezing!"

"I know, I know," John said. He stepped around the pillows and blankets littered on the floor, most likely fallen when Harriet was sleeping.

As John moved to pick up a blanket to place it over Harriet to protect her from the cold of the storm raging outside, thunder sounded and a bolt of lightening flashed. John jumped and dropped the blanket, which landed softly on Harriet's face before sliding off. She didn't wake.

Sherlock reached a hand and grabbed John's in a firm grip, John tensing the slightest moment before relaxing completely. Sherlock pulled John toward him and wrapped a reassuring arm around his shoulders, rubbing it soothingly. "Let's go back to the room," he suggested.

John nodded shakily, and turned with Sherlock, cautiously walking towards his bedroom. When he was inside, Sherlock quickly removed his arm to speedily shut the door, gone a moment, returned the next. He replaced his arm smoothly and walked them back towards the bed. When John was seated, Sherlock reached over and grabbed two flashlights from the drawer by the bed. He gave one to John, and clicked his on.

John clicked his on, too. Pointing it at Sherlock, he smiled and said, "Where were you on the day of yesterday?", quoting an American movie he'd seen once. He had his face pulled in a mock-serious expression, and Sherlock tried to imitate it.

"I was here."

"Your proof?" John asked, teasing.

"I have this friend, John Watson, and he lives in this house. He's my best friend, I'm sure he'd vouch for me," Sherlock said confidently.

"Your best friend, you say?" John asked, seriousness no longer a pretense, but a reality.

"The best of them all. Which, granted, isn't a very long list, but that's irrelevant," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. John grinned.

"Prove it," John challenged.

"Prove you're my best friend, you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Here, give me your hand, the right one," Sherlock demanded. John didn't hesitate. Right hand extended, he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was searching through the dresser drawer again and it was a moment before he pulled what he wanted out, with a soft cry of, "Aha!"

John leaned in closer, curious. In Sherlock's hand was a small black marker, the one they had bought on a case of a lady's missing grocery bag. They had made a list of the facts to base their deductions from. John hadn't seen the marker in months.

"What's that for?" John asked.

Sherlock shushed him. Uncapping the marker, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and wrote, DDrJHW,ADBFSH in nice, flowing lettering. Sherlock's tongue poked out as he wrote it, and, when he was done, he pulled back and gave his handy-worked a satisfied nod.

John pulled his hand away and stared at the writing for a moment. Then he crawled closer to Sherlock, plopping down next to him, legs crossed, and asked, "What does it mean?"

Sherlock gave him a look, half exasperation, half affection. The affection won, and Sherlock reached for John's hand and touched the letters tenderly. "Detective and Doctor John Hamish Watson, Assistant Detective and Best Friend of Sherlock Holmes," he read aloud.

John smiled at Sherlock. "Best friends," he whispered. Then, abruptly, he reached for the marker, grabbing it right from Sherlock's hand before reaching to write on Sherlock's as well. Sherlock made as to pull back, but then relaxed and let John write. John beamed. Sherlock trusted him. John wrote, CDSH,GBFJHW. Sherlock read the letters aloud curiously, then gave John a pointed look. "Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, Genius Best Friend of John Hamish Watson." Sherlock smiled, and John continued, rambling just a bit nervously. "Mum told me what consultive detective meant. You're the person people consult when they need help with a case and can't solve it on their own. You're very valuable." John blushed when he realized what he said.

Sherlock laughed happily. "It's perfect, John!" he exclaimed excitedly. John preened. It was perfect.

Another crash of thunder sounded, and the lightening struck much closer this time. John nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock patted his back and lifted up the covers of the blanket, ushering John underneath them. Once they were wrapped warmly in the blankets, he pulled John close and hugged him.

Sherlock knew thunderstorms scared John. John never said why, in so many words, but he told Sherlock once that thunder reminds him of an argument his mom and dad had gotten into. It had been a sunny day, and yet, around seven or eight, the sun just barely setting, thunder had clapped, loud and clashing from the next room. His mother, hearing his calls of fright, had come into his room. She had a small black mark developing on her face, and when John asked about it, she said it had been the thunder John heard that gave her the black mark. "I need to hide from the thunder better," she had said. John agreed.

Now, at every thunder storm, Sherlock would hold John close for comfort and would get up with him to make sure the thunder hadn't gotten Harriet or his mom before they would crawl back in bed.

Sherlock made a comforting noise and snuggled close to John. John sighed and sniffled, burying his nose in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock patted his back again. "It's alright, John," he whispered softly. "I'll hide you from the thunder, and teach you about moving past emotional traumas."

John chuckled tiredly and mewled happily. It was quiet for a moment, then John snored. Sherlock smiled, and closed his eyes.


	5. Ebullient Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where bullies are bullies, and victims aren't victims. At least, not with John Watson as a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W/C: 1275  
> Disclaimer: Surprise, surpise, I still don't own Sherlock Holmes! Nope, it still belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, John Hall, Moffat..

"Hey, freak!" Sally Donovan's voice rang out, loud and derisive from across the cafeteria. "Don't show up to class tomorrow if you're just going to take all the attention!"

Sherlock Holmes squared his shoulders and shot Donovan a look of pure disgust. "Maybe if there was someone in class actually able to understand the content matter of the subject, then I wouldn't have to answer every question. It's pathetic, isn't it, Donovan? Especially considering you're one of those people," he sneered. He turned on his heel before she could shoot off another insult.

Sherlock cringed as he walked out of the cafeteria and through the hallways of the school. All his peers looked down their nose at him, as though he were the unintelligent and immature one. They just disliked him because he was different, because he was better, John always said. It didn't make him feel any better.

Shouldering his bag, he walked to his science class. Although he was young-twelve and a half, actually-he was in one of the more accelerated classes. Already through with life science and even biology, Sherlock was in an advanced placement physics class, and, while it wasn't the the most advanced one they had to offer, it did lessen the bullying. Just slightly.

His professor was inside the room, eating lunch, and let him come in. Sherlock moved to his seat and pulled out his homework and a textbook. The homework was simple, pushed to the side earlier in class because of its simplicity. He decided to finish it now, then begin reading ahead. Something to distract himself from the bullying, which had gotten progressively worse since the beginning of the year.

Only two months in and Sherlock was harassed constantly. Sally Donovon was his main bully, but there were others, like Anderson and Moran, who bothered him as well, but none with quite as much ferocity as Sally.

Then, there was Jim Moriarty. He was friends with Sebastian Moran, one of his tormenters, and always baited Sherlock, especially when John was around.

John.

Sherlock wondered where he was.

***

John Watson walked swiftly to Sherlock's physics classroom. He was late to meet Sherlock from searching every haunt of Sherlock's over the school, starting with the theater, and Jim Moriarty was being particularly persistant, following him from his last period class. Maybe if John walked faster, he'd be able to leave Moriarty behind..

"John," Moriarty said in a tone that suggested he had said his name multiple times before. John sighed and turned towards Moriaty. "Yes?" he asked patiently. But he was sure it gritted its way out of his teeth and his eyes flashed with impatience. He saw it reflected in Moriarty's eyes.

"What's your rush?" Moriarty asked innocently. John resisted the urge to scowl, just barely.

"I have to meet Sherlock," he said. He felt like he'd said this a million times before, seventy percent of those times to Moriarty himself.

"Mind if I join?" Yes, I bloody well mind, John thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "I can't really say," with a sympathetic and artfully pulled off-but completely artificial-regretful smile.

Moriarty smiled in return, not dampened in spirits at all. In fact, he seemed more excited than if John would've said yes. "Let's ask Sherlock if I can join, why don't we?" he asked. "And Sebastian, of course, would join us," Moriarty added, Sebastian Moran appearing from around the corner.

John stared at Moran. "You're a right little creep, aren't you? Ever heard of privacy?" he snapped. He didn't like much the idea of being tailed by the likes of Moran-or Moriarty, for that matter. He'd have to talk with Sherlock about this.

Sherlock.

What was he going to do about Sherlock?

***

Sherlock heard the door click open. Without looking up, he said, "Hello, John, Jim. How are you doing today?" Sherlock pointedly ignored Sebastian, who glowered at him.

"Hello, Sherlock. I see your working on physics. I already finished it, of course, in class earlier today. It was rather simple, really. I'm surprised you haven't finished it," Moriarty said smugly, looking at John.

Sherlock gnashed his teeth together before responding calmly, "I was unwilling to waste time on something so trivial when I could have it done in a minute."

"And what did you spend your time on, then, if physics is so trivial?" Moriarty hummed.

"I read ahead in the book. I'm almost done with it, actually," Sherlock said, still not looking up from his book. John sat by him and patted his hand.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed on John and Sherlock's hands. "You haven't read it yet? I finished that thing ages ago."

"I meant the advanced chemistry book." Sherlock finally raised his eyes from his reading and lifted the book to show the cover. "Have you read this yet? It's quite the interesting read. But I'm sure you know since you read it. Right?" Sherlock asked with the smallest of smirks.

Moriarty, instead of answering, turned to John and gave him a smile, only half-genuine, mostly imitation. The effect was exceeding creepy, and John couldn't repress a shiver. Moriarty grinned and waved, taking his leave.

John scowled at Moran at when he lingered in the door, even yelled at him to "Kindly piss off!" Sherlock cracked a smile. Moran frowned and left.

Once the door shut, Sherlock burst into laughter, soon followed by John. "Did you see his face?" Sherlock looked victorious. John smiled and nodded.

"They won't be forgetting their shame anytime soon," John commented, still chuckling.

"No, they won't," Sherlock said, suddenly solemn and pensive. John, sensing the atmosphere, quieted.

He leaned over and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "What's bothering you, then?" he asked.

Sherlock tried to shrug him off, but John held tight. Finally, Sherlock expelled a short breath and asked John quietly, "Do you think I'm a freak?"

It was whispered so low, John didn't hear all of it. "Pardon?" Sherlock asked again, this time with a touch of worry coloring his voice. "A freak?" John's nose wrinkled. Sherlock wasn't a freak. Where was he getting these ideas? "Is this about Donovan?"

"Answer the question, John." Sherlock was tense, and John sighed, rubbing a hand across Sherlock's back.

"Of course I don't. I think you're brilliant," John said honestly. Sherlock blushed lightly and stared ahead. "Don't believe me, do you? Alright, I'll prove it to you." John smiled at Sherlock, and grabbed a marker, black of course, and said, "Sherlock Holmes, Genius Boy Extraordinaire." John wrote a letter on Sherlock's palm for each word, SHGBE. "Exponentially More Intelligent and Observant than Moriarty and Donovan Combined." EMIOMDC. "And the Extraordinary Best Friend of one John Hamish Watson." EBFJHW. Along Sherlock's hand, in tiny chicken scratch, were the letters SHGBEEMIOMDCEBFJHW.

Sherlock glanced down at the letters, then gave John one of his looks, the one that really reads you and determines your worth. Then he smiled a wide smile, full of teeth and joy, and gave John a hug, squeezing his hand. "I can't believe you remembered something so stupid we did when we were nine," he said with a laugh, his voice sounding oddly choked.

John pretended not to notice the redness of Sherlock's eyes, or the not-so-discreet way he wiped at them, and grinned. "Liked I'd ever forget!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock smiled again, and John felt his heart stop before pumping faster. Sherlock whispered, so low John almost didn't catch it, a grateful, "Thank you."

John just hugged him tighter.


	6. Glorious Aggrandizement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bravery is not the antonym of fear, and fear is essential to being courageous. Especially when it's evident you're the only one not hiding from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W/C: 992  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. If I did, there'd be a mini-series of them as children, or some other such thing that would be completely random and wouldn't fit with canon. But I don't, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Hall, BBC, Moffat, etc. do. Not me.

A soft rapping on his window woke Sherlock Holmes. Groggily, he rubbed his tired eyes and got up, stumbling towards the window and wrenching it open.

John Watson was perched on a wobbly branch just outside of the window. He's in a ripped pair of jeans and a patched jumper, wrapped in a shabby jacket for warmth. Sherlock ushered him inside and closed his window. He walked towards his dresser and pulled out a pair of peach silk pajamas, identical to his own. He set the pajamas on his bed, next to John, before sitting down.

John was staring at the ground, still shivering. Sherlock pursed his lips, then spoke. "Did it happen again?" John nodded numbly. "Do they know you're here?" John shook his head. Sherlock got up and stood in front of John. "Lift up your arms," he directed. Sherlock took off John's jacket and folded in and put it aside gently. He lifted and removed his shirt, too, and placed it, neatly folded, atop of the jacket. Sherlock grabbed the pajama top, and put it on John. John hardly reacted.

Sherlock pushed John into a lying position and removed his boots and socks. Then, he unbuttoned John's pants, pulling them down and off, quickly replacing them with the pajama bottoms. Grabbing the dirty clothing, he placed them in a small laundry basket; then he returned to the bed and pulled the blankets back before moving towards John and heaving him to the unmade side of the bed, tucking him in. He moved back towards his side of the bed and got under the covers.

John, silent this whole time, watched Sherlock with wide, unblinking eyes. When Sherlock settled comfortably in the bed, facing John, John scooted in his direction and curled against him. Sherlock let out a breath of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding in and pulled John in close.

John let out a shuddering breath and began to sob noiselessly. Sherlock hugged him tight and rubbed his back comfortingly, still a little awkward with comfort, but more than willing to try for John. "It's alright, John," he whispered. "It's alright to hide, sometimes. It's alright to need help." John's sobs became audible and his chest heaved. Sherlock carded his fingers through John's sandy blond hair and massaged his scalp soothingly. "It's alright, it's alright," Sherlock murmured.

John clutched the collar of Sherlock's silk pajamas in his hand, his tear-stained face buried in Sherlock's neck. He gulped in deep breaths and sniffed. "Do you think it's cowardly of me, Sherlock?" he asked. "For me to hide, for me to come to you, and ask for your help. Thirteen years old and still asking for your help." John kept his face hidden, nervous to let Sherlock see him so very vulnerable, even though Sherlock had seen it all, seen John at his very lowest, seen John the days Harriet came home drunk, seen how it hurt him and seen him get put back together by his own-Sherlock's own-very calm hands.

Sherlock shook his head. "Just the opposite," Sherlock said. "I think you're very brave. Braver than Harriet and your mother, certainly braver than your father. You're so very brave, John."

John shook his head. "Brave," he scoffed. "I'm a coward."

Sherlock pulled away, and John clutched air where Sherlock had been. Sherlock gave John a meaningful look and grabbed his jaw, holding it tight and in place, so John was looking at him without hiding. "Yes, brave," Sherlock said, chin jutted out stubbornly. "Do you mean to say that defending Harriet in her fights with your father isn't brave? Or checking on Harriet to make sure she's warm in the night and hasn't choked on her vomit isn't brave, even when thunderstorms still terrify you?" John made as if to interrupt Sherlock, maybe point out some ill-conceived flaw in his reasoning, but Sherlock barreled through. "Do you mean to say being my friend every day at school, the friend of the school's freak at risk of social outcast, isn't brave? Or walking all this way in the dark and sprinkling night isn't an act of bravery? Maybe if I told you what the statistics of mortality in the areas you walked in are, or the odds of being robbed at this late hour are you would feel more brave."

John shook his head. Sherlock was getting upset with him. That's not what he wanted. 

Looking up at Sherlock, he said, "If I have so much bravery, then why am I so afraid?"

Sherlock's eyes, before defiant, were now softened in understanding. He looked at John fondly and said kindly, "Oh, John. Is that what you think? That bravery means no fear? It's the very opposite!" Sherlock cupped John's face with his hands tenderly. "You're brave John because you're afraid. Don't you see? Because you're afraid and do what's necessary, what other's are too consumed with fear to do, what other worry and fret to do, you do, because you know what's at stake and you're willing to go against those odds despite that. Can't you see? You're braver than I am."

John shook his head. "I'm not braver than you. You face all those people at school, all those bullies, and all without a trace of despair. I could never be as brave as you," John said softly.

Sherlock shook his head and hugged John to his chest. "You still don't get it, do you, John? You're it. You're the reason I'm so brave. I see how brave you are, and it makes me see what I can be. You make me brave. Without you, I'd be nothing."

John shook his head in disbelief. Then he smiled into Sherlock's shoulder, laughing.

"What?" Sherlock asked with a smile.

John looked up at Sherlock, "I feel the same way. If it weren't for you... I wouldn't be brave at all. Isn't that ironic?" John laughed again tiredly.

Sherlock chuckled in agreement. "Yes," he said. "It is ironic." He smiled at John and cuddled close to sleep.


	7. A Significant Maturation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John understands what it means not to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W/C: 1906  
> Disclaimer: After all this time... I still don't own Sherlock Holmes, not even the tiniest, minimalist, slightest bit. And you can thank Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Hall, Stephen Moffat, BBC, Guy Ritchie, and (no matter how loathe I am to even mention this) CBS. *I cringe* for that.

John watched Sherlock disbelievingly. "You really don't want to go?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I have experiments, John. I dont have time for such trivialties."

"Trivialties! This is important to me, you idiot! I'm inviting you."

Sherlock Holmes didn't look up from where he was dissecting a dead frog, an assignment for a class. "Yes, I'm aware. Tell Mycroft thank you for the ticket, but he'll have to accompany you himself."

"I don't want Mycroft to go!" John Watson replied heatedly, offended. "I want my best mate to go. Remember? Think of all the things I do for you. You owe me!"

"Don't act like you sacrifice things, John. You always want to come along, so stop complaining." Sherlock was annoyed with him. Sherlock was annoyed with him. John seethed.

"Excuse me? Complain? When do I complain? Whenever you play the violin all hours of the night when I sleep over, maybe? Or the general filth in your room?" John gestured at the clothing on the floor and the take-out boxes littering the dresser. The tips of Sherlock's ears heated up. "How about when you steal my clothes? Your refusal to accompany me on things I like to do?" John was ranting, he realized, but it was too late. He was on a roll. "What about when I found those animal parts in my fridge because you had 'no room in yours', remember that? Mum nearly went insane, thanks!"

"That was two years ago when I was fourteen. Anyway, I explained it to her, didn't I?" Sherlock asked petulantly, pouting.

"Oh, yes, right. I'm sorry. What was it you said? 'Sorry, ma'am, but storing these parts is more important than the stench that will be sure to seep into your kitchen. Not a problem, though, it'll clear up in a few days."

"Remembered that verbatim, did you?" Sherlock muttered.

"How could I forget, since my mom repeated it every day? 'A few days, he said, a few days. It's been a week, John!'" John imitated his mother in a shrill voice. "Father didn't let that one go. He blamed Harry and Mother for as long as it smelled, even though Harry doesn't even live with us anymore."

Sherlock's eyes flashed guiltily for a moment. That was all John needed to know that he got him. "Sherlock," he said pleadingly. "It's only for a couple of hours. Come on! Are we best mates, or not? Or is Mary Morstan taking that place?"

Sherlock's gaze shot up to John's accusingly. "Mary's going, is she?"

John had to bite back a grin as jealously and general dislike shone through Sherlock's eyes at the mention of Mary. "Yeah," John said nonchalantly. "She said she would. 'Called me not too long ago, actually, to tell me she was headed that way."

Brows furrowed, Sherlock frowned. "What," he said, "are we waiting for then, John? There's not a moment to lose!" and dashed to his closet.

John shook his head exasperatedly, the delighted grin on his face belying his elation at Sherlock's acceptance.

***

Maybe, John thought to himself, this is where I should begin to regret inviting him.

Sherlock was prattling on and on about facts about the play and how this or that happened because of this war which started because of that court case which was brought to this court by this man for that reason, in between insulting the teenagers playing onstage and the theater in general. Every other word out of his mouth was insulting and informational. John couldn't fathom how Sherlock made those things so alike and intertangled.

"Of course," Sherlock said, "if the owners of this accursed theater had any sense, then they'd upgrade from all this tacky red and gold, maybe change the curtains to something more exciting rather than more dull. Remember that bronze curtain they had? Horrid thing, yet, somehow, it looked better than this gold one. The theater looks.. smaller now," Sherlock said with a sniff.

"Really," John drawled, only half-listening. "How interesting." John craned his neck, looking for Molly. He needed to know if he needed to be in the dressing room by five thirty or six..

"John, are you listening? Or are you looking for Mary again? John?"

John felt a flash of pain in his shin. Sherlock had kicked him. "Ouch! What the bloody hell was that for?" John massaged his shin gently while he glared at Sherlock, who was glaringly right back at him with a surprising amount of heat.

"That was for inviting me to this stupid play, which I didn't want to come to in the first place, then looking around for Mary the entire time I'm here!" Sherlock had a hand propped on his hip self-righteously. John couldn't reign in his grin.

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous!" John said, laughing. He thought he was looking for Mary?

Sherlock scowled at him. "I'm not stupid, John," he said with narrowed eyes.

John shook his head fondly. "Of course you're not. You're just occassionally blind and tend to make wrong assumptions when it comes to me." John winced after he said it. No matter how true it was, he wasn't going to hear the end of it for saying that, on top of everything else Sherlock was apparently annoyed with him for.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he sputtered for a moment before pointed and exclaimed, "There's Mary, John, the girl of honor! And for the record," Sherlock added coldly, "I never make assumptions." Then, he turned on his heel and stomped away.

John went to chase after him, but Mary attacked him with a fierce hug. By the time he had disentangled himself from her arms, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

***

"He'll be back, John. He'll be back," Ms Hudson, an assisting professor and his neighbor down the street, tried to reassure him. "He's just gotten himself into a bit of a tiff. He'll be back before the curtain rises, you'll see."

John wasn't so sure. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

He knew he shouldn't have laughed about Mary, but it was so implausible that he thought it was funny. Mary and John were just friends; didn't Sherlock know that? And if he did, surely Sherlock didn't believe John when he said Mary would become his new best friend, right? Because that was irrational. John hadn't known Mary as long as he has known Sherlock, they weren't nearly as close, nor was she as interesting as Sherlock. But, then, jealousy was irrational as well, John supposed, even in best friends.

He hoped Sherlock would come to his senses and become his clear-headed and reasonable friend again, so he'd stay his friend.

John didn't know what he'd do if Sherlock wasn't his best friend anymore, but he certainly wouldn't promote anyone to that position once he was gone, God forbid he ever left. Did Sherlock not understand that? Or was he unable to?

John twiddled his fingers nervously and finished getting dressed, so he could go over his lines with Ms. Hudson and get into character.

***

Sherlock sighed a long weary sigh as he took a seat in the audience. It was thirty minutes in, and John had yet to appear onstage. Molly had already been in a couple of acts, as well as a few other people, but Sherlock had been uninterested and annoyed with John, so he hadn't bothered to watch it.

Now that he was inside, watching, John wasn't onstage. Sherlock sighed again, loudly, much to the annoyance of the people seated next to him, if their affronted looks were anything to go by. Then, he realized they were Molly's parents, and he had let out a sigh on her part. No wonder they were glaring. Leave it to John to get him a horrible seat with good intentions.

He tried to focus on the play, but he was so bored, his mind unstimulated by the so-far predictable plot and Molly's abysmal acting. He began deducing things about the lives of the people seated in the audience. The woman in the row in front of him was in a fight with her husband, the man behind him was her husband, the man who was balding wasn't related to anyone here, and the old woman at the end of the aisle was pretending to be asleep. Oh, and how could he forget? The girl who just sat next to him was the bane of his existence.

"Hello, Mary. How are you on this fine evening?" Sherlock asked cordially. He bit the inside of his cheek. John said he had to be nice.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. How are you?" Mary crossed her ankles daintily and smiled at Sherlock politely.

"Fine, fine. Do you know when John is coming onstage?" Sherlock asked, impacient for him to be a part of the play, so he wouldn't be so bored any longer; and if it was also for a valid reason to ignore Mary as well... Well, she didn't need to know.

"Oh, he didn't tell you? He comes out in the act after the next, but the next act is so short that he'll be onstage soon enough." Mary was staring at the stage expectantly.

Sherlock hummed in response, then proceeded to ignore Mary. He heard her babbling on and on about how excited she was for John, but he didn't absorb a word of the conversation. Then, John came onto the stage, and Mary didn't seem worth even the effort of acknowledging in his mind that she was seated next to him, did she?

***

John was nervous, so very, very nervous. His legs were shaking the tiniest bit, and his voice was squeaky. Ms. Hudson was fluttering about him, trying to calm him down, but he was too nervous.

He'd be onstage, and Sherlock wouldn't be out there watching him to make sure he didn't fail. His parents weren't here, and Harry wasn't going to make it, even though she said she'd come. She'd gotten into a fight with Clara and would most likely be spending her night at a bar instead of attending her brother's play.

John took a few deep breaths and repeated to himself what Molly had told him, quite dramatically, when she found out Sherlock had left: the show must go on.

"John! John! Are you listening to me?" Ms. Hudson was waving her hand in his face. "Sherlock's in the audience, John, look," she said excitedly, pointing. John could see Sherlock, seated next to Mary.

Instead of being calm, John got more nervous. He wondered what Sherlock would think of his performance; but then Sherlock was looking at him, he realized, from where he was peeking out of the curtain, and giving John a reassuring smile and giving him a personal round of applause.

And John breathed a sigh of relief, immediately reassured and filled with confidence knowing Sherlock believed in him, and went on stage when it was time, did an outstanding performance of a soldier who had died in Afghanistan, if Sherlock's apologetic compliments were anything to go by, and didn't worry for a moment about what Mary thought when he ignored her for Sherlock, what Molly thought when Sherlock didn't look in her direction when Sherlock went to congratulate him, or what his mother thought when his father told her she couldn't go, what his father thought when he decided not to go, or what his sister thought as she took another shot of alcohol.

All he could think of was the one person not hiding anything, the one person who came and watched, the one person who was proud and happy for him, and he couldn't help but only care about Sherlock and smile and be proud of himself and everything his friend encouraged him to achieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sherlockian Principle, part two of the Burgeoning Series, will be posted shortly. It only has two chapters so far and is a work in progress, but it will have seven chapters as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and leave kudos if you like it? :)


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